


Peach Tea

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [55]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, Gen, no bro is not alive again don't worry, visions of the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Going through one of Bro's old hoards, Dave finds a teacup and a memory.





	Peach Tea

"Twenty fucking years and we're not done with this shit." 

Even from across the room, Karkat sounds (and feels) a lot more disgusted with the situation that you do, honestly. You're just kind of...neutral on the whole thing, at this point. Sure, this is Bro's shit—you're not totally sure how the fuck Sollux tracked one of his trophy hoards down, but there's no denying it's legit—but to you, most of it means nothing. 

You suspect that's a defense mechanism, honestly. Everything in here came from someone who died, and most of them didn't die well or easily. Murder's not a good death, and murder by a hunter? Murder by your fucking _Bro_? 

Yeah, you're glad you don't remember. Maybe a lil' guilty— 

_Don't be,_ Karkat murmurs in your mind. You blink and look up to check on where he is—nah, he's not moving toward you, you're still good, D and John and the new demon aren't about to get tipped off that your mental state isn't at a hundred percent right this second. (Gale might know already. You're not sure if they've given themself heightened empathy with their powers, or if it's just how they are, but they usually notice other people's moods pretty fast.) 

On a related note, why's the new demon here again? Like, not that you have a problem with them, but D's here because he wanted to drive, John's here because he's really good at ID'ing shit, Karkat's here because you refuse to do anything that pertains to your life before you met him unless he's with you, Gale's here because they get anxious if they get left out of too many activities in a row. Apollo probably has a reason for being here, but you have no idea what it is. 

_For fuck's sake. Are you planning on asking them?_

_Nah._

_Dave. Come on._

_You're standing next to them,_ you _ask them._

_Really? Fucking_ really _Dave?_

_I'll pay you._ You turn away from him, act like you're checking out a surprisingly neatly-arranged collection of trinkets in one of those fancy glass-front cabinets that you think was made to put plates in. Or something. Really fancy plates, maybe. Anyway, the point of turning is that Karkat won't be able to see the way you grin as you think about paying him with a kiss, with a rose, with one of the lil' romantic gestures that both of you fuckin' _love_— 

The demon shoots you a flash of exasperated affection, but from somewhere behind you and across the room you hear him ask, "Why the fuck are you here, exactly?" 

"Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the ti—_Artemis,_ come back here—" 

Oh god, if that snake gets loose and lost in here there is no way you'll be getting home today. Also you kind of wonder why Apollo thinks calling an animal that has no ears is of any use whatsoever. Maybe you should go see if you can help track her down?

_No._

_Okay, ouch? You think I can't catch a snake?_

_That's not the—fuck!_

You get the last word in stereo, both inside your head and out loud. The latter version is punctuated by the distinctively musical sound of glass shattering, and a yelp from John. Oh, yeah, you think you'll stay out of whatever they've got going back there. 

Huh. Now that you really look at the contents of the cabinet, you realize that most of what's in there is both delicate and beautiful, the kind of stuff that you don't really remember at all from when you were a kid. Which is, y'know, understandable—you were a _kid_, and who lets kids around breakable shit? 

Wait, no, that's stupid. 

Okay, so maybe you're a lil' bit more affected by being surrounded by Bro's trophies than you thought you were. Rose is gonna have fun untangling this later. Which means...right now it's your job to not even try to untangle it. At all. 

_That's not what it means, dumbass/sweetheart._

God, the way two meanings come through in one thought kills you. _Focus on the snake, babe,_ you tell him, and start looking for which side of the cabinet opens. Might as well check this shit out and see what kind of stuff Bro thought was worth hoarding, right? Of course you're right. You're always right, except when you're not. 

Cool. It's not locked. Not that you expected it to be—between the actual lock on the storage building and the wards that'd been laid around it (nasty things, if they hadn't been eroded from two decades of neglect and natural erosion) there's no real reason he'd bother locking up the shit inside. Still, you're kinda disappointed that you brought a lockpick kit for no real reason, although you guess that what Gale did to open the front door was probably easier and definitely faster. 

Anyway. Instead of sulking over getting what you want with no delayed gratification, you open the glass door and survey the contents: a chunk of smoky quartz, a claw that Jake's going to have to scry and see if it needs a burial or if it can be added to one of the stashes of magical items, a delicate rose-and-cobalt teacup, a tiny red-glass figurine of a bird with outstretched wings—

Wait. Go back to the teacup. 

Fuck, you _remember_ that. Almost. You almost remember—something about a tree. No, that's not—that can't be right. 

A peach tree. 

You don't even know what the hell a peach tree looks like. Why—

Fuck. 

It's kind of hard to reach in past the other delicate little trinkets to extricate the cup, but hey, you've got steady hands. It doesn't seem to weigh anything as you pull it out of the case; you're actually kind of afraid to hold it by the handle, what with how fragile it seems. God, the china's so thin it's almost translucent...how the fuck did Bro get it from wherever he took it from to here without breaking it? 

Why does your mouth taste like honey and peaches? 

You start to turn—might as well ask Karkat if he's feeling the same shit you are, ask John if he can see anything eldritch on the cup—and Apollo yelps. For a second you assume it's got something to do with their snake, but even before you focus on them, you're proved wrong. 

"Dave, no!" 

...oh, shit. It's about the cup, isn't it. 

Your mouth fills with sweetness until that's all you taste, until it blots out all your other senses. You have time to form one more thought. Unsurprisingly, it's not all that helpful. 

_Shit._

* * *

Your name is Dave Strider, you're eight years old, and if you weren't in this tree because Bro told you to keep watch you'd really be enjoying the peaches in it. Okay, you're still enjoying them; you can watch and eat at the same time, one arm wrapped around the thin trunk and the other hand sticky with juice as you take as big bites as you can manage out of what's probably your third or fourth fruit. 

But you're watching. You are. You're making sure no one's come out of the house yet; if she leaves, Bro's gonna be mad. 

At you. 

You're eight years old and you're still familiar enough with the concept of danger to know that letting the woman in the house leave isn't an option. But it shouldn't be a problem; there's no reason she _would_ leave. Bro's paid attention to her schedule for weeks, cut the phone lines last night so there won't be a reason for her to break that schedule. He's planned for this; parking you fifteen feet up the peach tree in the front yard is just extra insurance. And maybe a convenient alternative to babysitting.

Hey, it's better than being left in the truck for hours. You've done that. It sucks. 

Then again, it might have been better if he'd left you in the truck, because the front door just opened, and it's not your bro coming out. Nope, it's the lady that he showed you a pic of on his phone this morning—at least as tall as he is, pretty dyed-red hair braided back and pinned to her head like a crown. From here you can't see her eyes, but you know they're so dark a brown that they might as well be black. 

She's got her car keys in her hand and you have maybe two minutes to figure out how to keep her from using them. There's no way you can—

Wait. 

This isn't a _good_ idea, but it's one that'll probably work. You bite your lip, stuff the peach pit into your pocket, and unhook your arm from the trunk. The branch that's above your head is much thinner than the one you're sitting on; when Bro boosted you up into the tree, you stopped here only because you knew that if you went any higher you'd break branches. 

At this point, though...that's exactly what you want to do. Well, not _want,_ but you can't think of anything else. So you reach up and clamp both hands down on the branch above your head, take a deep breath and force yourself to stop chewing on your lip so you don't bite through it. 

Then you slide forward and off the branch that's been holding your weight for the last couple hours, transferring it all to one that you're pretty sure won't be able too. For a second it holds—it's a horrible feeling, swinging there and not knowing whether or not you're going to fall—but then the panic that's been right there since the door opened hits you and you sob out an incoherent cry for help and kick with both feet. 

The sound of the branch snapping is a lot quieter than a gunshot, but it's a lot more scary. There's probably at least a second between the branch snapping and you hitting the ground, but you kind of just...white out for that span of time. You _feel_ that nauseating moment of weightlessness, but you sure don't feel anything else. 

You feel something when you hit the ground, though. Several things. Most of them are some kind of pain—not the sharp and overwhelming ache of breaking a bone, thank everything that most people hold holy, but you can already tell your side's scraped raw even through the protection of your shirt, there's a thin line of heat from the left side of your jaw all the way up to your temple, and you've somehow ripped both knees of your jeans open. 

The blood seeping through the torn fabric terrifies you a lot more than it should. You choke down another cry, remember that the whole point of this is to _attract_ attention, and immediately realize that apparently you can't let yourself be loud about being hurt even when you want to. Which means that what you just did was for nothing, which means that you fucked up the one little task Bro set you to do, which means he's going to be _so_ mad— 

"Shh. Come here. Come on, little one." 

You choke on a mouthful of tears and terror, raising the snapped-off branch that you somehow didn't let go of for fifteen whole feet of freefall like that's going to protect you from the woman kneeling in front of you. (It might protect you. She's not a hunter, and you will be one day.) 

"Here. I know you want these," she tells you, her voice way too soft and understanding for the situation, and holds out your shades. Oh shit, you didn't even realize they fell off... 

Letting go of the branch is hard. Your fingers don't want to uncurl; it actually hurts. You bite your lip and manage it anyway, taking your shades out of her hand without really meeting those dark eyes and settling them back where they belong even though that makes the cut on the side of your face sting worse. 

Once they're on, you can look at her. 

She doesn't look mad or confused. You don't understand the look on her face—pity, maybe. 

"I—I fell." 

"You did. It was braver than I expected." While you're puzzling over that sentence and wondering if you hit your head on the way down, she rises to her feet and holds out a hand to you. "Come on inside, sweetheart, and I'll clean you up." 

You don't _want_ to be inside. Bro's probably watching; what if he doesn't want you there when he does what he's going to do? Then again...if you don't go with her, she'll want to know why. Maybe she'll even give up and leave, and that'd be worse than whatever else could happen. 

So you reach up and take her hand, trying not to think about how hers is so much larger than yours. How it's soft, how her skin's so much darker. You don't want to think about any of that. You don't want to know anything about her. You already want to forget. 

"Don't worry," she murmurs as she pulls you up to your feet and leads you into the house. 

You're not worried. Why would you worry? 

(Liar, liar, pants on fire. You're so stupid.) 

"Shush. Sit down." She lets go of your hand and gives you a gentle push towards the table and the two chairs already pulled out from it. You take the one that faces the door, but keep your eyes on her as she opens the cabinet under the sink to retrieve a washcloth, running some water over it before she comes to sit in the other chair, pulling it just a little closer to you. "Which hurts more, your knees or your chest?" 

"My—my knees, but how—" It's under your shirt. She shouldn't know. 

"I know a lot of things, Davey. Don't worry." She smiles, and you can feel the nice safe mask that Bro's taught you to wear when you have to hide things ripping right down the center. "Oh, Davey, don't—" 

Too late. You're already crying, and all you can do about it is shove your shades up so you can rub at your eyes with both fists like that's going to push the tears back inside. She doesn't try to stop you, just sighs and starts wiping blood off your knees. When she's done with that, she pushes your shirt up enough that she can work on the scrapes along your ribs, easing pressure off every time your breath hitches in pain. 

You still don't look. You don't look when she lets your shirt drop back down and you hear the sound of her chair scraping the linoleum as she stands up. You don't look until she sets something small and light down on the table, sits down again and takes your wrists in her hands. 

She doesn't pull hard to get you to lower your hands. She doesn't have to—you know better than to not cooperate. Your sight's blurry for a couple seconds; you blink until it clears. 

The woman your Bro is going to kill still doesn't look mad. She just shakes her head and lets go of your wrist. You can't help but flinch when she raises her hand, but all she does is smooth your hair back. 

"He's already cracked your soul, hasn't he?" 

"I—I don't—"

"Here." She leans back and pushes the cup she's set down on the table towards you. "Drink that." 

There's no way you're going to do that. Bro would kill you. 

"He won't know, don't worry." 

The answer to what you didn't say yet startles you enough that you forget your shades aren't over your eyes and look up, right at her. 

She _is_ mad, you realize. Just...not at you. "Why?" 

"Because it's not your fault. Drink your tea." 

"It's just tea?" 

"It's just tea with honey. I promise."

In a few years—maybe even just a few months—you'll know better than to trust the promise of someone not quite human. Now, though, you're eight years old, you're scared (you're scared a lot) and she's been kinder to you than anyone but D or Dirk. You nod and pick up the cup—carefully, in both hands, it's so delicate you worry you'll shatter it just by touching it—and take a sip of the amber liquid inside. 

It's sweet. It's warm. It tastes like peaches in the sun. 

"It does, doesn't it?" 

"Uh-huh. Do you make it?" 

"No. It's easier to buy it, and it tastes as good. My friend's bees make the honey." Her eyes flicker for a second, go somewhere far away. "Gods, I hope he isn't the one who finds me." 

"After Bro—" 

"Shush." 

"But he's gonna—" 

"_Shush_. I know, Davey. Drink your tea." 

You want to argue. Your eyes are already full of tears. You swallow a mouthful of tea that's almost half the cup; it's so _sweet_. So much better than you deserve. 

"Don't ever think that." She leans forward to take the cup out of your hands, sets it on the table and cups your face in both hands, pressing a warm kiss that you don't understand even a little bit to the center of your forehead. "It's okay. It's not your fault. None of this is your fault, and it never will be." 

"He's gonna—" 

"Shush, Davey." 

"I hel—I _helped_ him—" No, you killed her yourself. Or you might as well have. 

"Dave. Be still." Her hands leave your face—at some point in the last couple seconds you closed your eyes, and despite that a tear slips out at the loss of that touch—and one finger comes down over your lips, silencing you much better than it should be able to. "I know what I'm doing. I knew what would happen the first day I woke up and felt the two of you here." 

You want to ask her what she means. 

"That's why he's going to kill me, Davey. I know things most humans don't." She takes her finger off your lips; you hear her get to her feet and pick up the cup, stepping to the sink. "Wipe your face off, sweet one. Time's almost up." 

Bro's coming. You don't even question how she knows that. Scrubbing at your face with your sleeve kind of hurts, but you do it anyway. This'll hurt more later, anyway. 

"Do you want it to not hurt later, Davey?" 

"I don't understand." 

"That's okay. Look at me." 

You take a deep breath and you do as you're told. She's standing by the sink with the teacup in her hand; when you meet her eyes she sets it down on the counter. 

"You don't want to remember me." 

"That's not—" 

"Shush. It's okay. You shouldn't remember what's coming, anyway—he doesn't want you to be a child anymore, but I'll damn well let you keep that a little while longer. You won't remember, Davey. It's all right." 

"But—" It's not fair. She shouldn't be forgotten. You should remember. 

She smiles. "One day you will, then. Later." 

The door's past the sink, past where she's standing. You see it open; if she didn't know what was coming, the way your eyes widen would have given it away. Bro scowls at you, but he doesn't hesitate—he moves soundless and quick, up behind her before the door swings shut behind him. 

You want to close your eyes as he covers her mouth with one hand and cuts her throat with the other. 

You don't. 

You _will_ remember. 

You will.

* * *

**_DAVE—_**

You don't quite drop the teacup, but it's very fucking close, especially when Karkat grabs your shoulders and swings you around to face him. Pure-red eyes meet yours for a second; then he sobs and wraps his arms around you, not-quite-crushing you up to his chest and filling your head until you can hardly breathe. 

It's relieving to have him with you again after the awful hopeless feeling of that fucking vision, but you feel a sharp spike of fear through it. "Fuck—'kat, the cup, don't—" _Don't break it, please don't break it, please—_

He gasps, so caught up in your mind that your fear's his, and lets go. Apollo's next to you—hell, everyone's next to you at this point, all four of them crowded close enough that you wonder how fucking long you were gone—but Apollo's the one who reaches out and takes the cup when you shove it at him. 

Once that's done, you come as close to tackling Karkat as you can get with the limited space you have to work with. 

"Dave—" D starts, his voice tight with worry, and shuts up again when Karkat growls at him. 

That's not gonna reassure him, though, so you swallow a couple times and do some verbal explaining. "Yeah, I'm—nevermind, not gonna say I'm okay. Bro was a fucking _bastard_, y'know?" 

"He left a booby trap for you?" You can hear the fury in John's voice. Shit, he's gonna—

"That's not what happened, calm the fuck down." Oh, good. Karkat's heading that off before it gets started. "It was—a gift." 

"...a gift." Yeah, D's not buying it. Not that you expected him too. 

Three more sentences. You've got that much in you. "When I was eight I helped him kill an empath." That's what she was, you realize now. God, you wish you'd known her. "She—let me forget, made me forget. I was fucking _eight,_ D." 

"Fuck." 

"Yeah. Don't break that fucking cup." 

"What?" 

"I wanna take it home." Maybe it's morbid, but you want to buy some peach tea and brew it with honey. You want to remember her, give her a hunter's memorial, even if it's been so fucking long. 

Karkat wraps around your mind, warm as tea but closer to cinnamon than honey. Pure love and understanding. _It's not morbid._

"Yeah." 

_Let's get the fuck out of here._

"Please."


End file.
